With heads turned away and a sour after-taste lingering, the night cleared into an ever darkening dawn.
Even irony cannot dictate the course of events that is yet to unfold.
Dry spells of melancholy afflict my heaving conscious. Time and time again I have to feign a response conflicting with the general contempt of my insides. A certainty looms overheard. I dread the void it might leave behind – if it hasn’t already. I am constantly negating. I cannot even approach the questions that once lingered. The toll of thoughts has finally dawned, keenly knit from the strands of past failures, yet understood. Weeping has been long rested. Spools of interest lay haywire, collected only upon want. Interests and memories awry. Unimaginative strain of surrealism – languid. A self-inflicted isolation of such kind stands at a distance prudently aware of its doings.
I feel hopeless. No more can I associate. The disparity between Thoughts, Actions and Silence. That is all.
Even writing seems tedious. But somewhere still burns the waning passion for and of Literature.
I sought. I seek.